


A Night With Blake, or Ballad for a Crossed-over Fan

by Airelle



Category: Blake's 7, Man From U.N.C.L.E., Star Trek: The Original Series, Starsky & Hutch, The Professionals
Genre: F/F, Humor, M/M, Multi, Multimedia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:05:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airelle/pseuds/Airelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Christmas gift to fandom, from the Organians...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night With Blake, or Ballad for a Crossed-over Fan

**Author's Note:**

> _This was written as a birthday gift for my dear sister-in-law, Brigitte, who sadly is no longer among the living but lives on in our hearts._
> 
>  _First published in PLAIN BROWN WRAPPER 1992/93  
>  Also archived at The Hatastand and on Proslib CD_

          It was Christmas time on board the good ship Enterprising - both of them. So was it in a galaxy far, far away, on board the Millenium Sparrow. And the crew of the Barely Liberated was also singing hymns in memoriam of someone whose ideas, as Blake liked to say, had not been far from his own. Of course, he was mixing up the Nazarean and Spartacus, but then, they both had been crucified, and it all happened such a long time ago...

          The singing was accompanied, on all those ships, by some heavy drinking. There is, after all, no real festivities without the help of alcohol, or soma (thank you, Cally, with a little shot of adrenalin in it, if you don't mind!), or Romulan Ale, or whatever green or yellow stuff mankind - or alienkind - invented to botch up their metabolisms and to forget some of their inhibitions.

          In London, England, Earth, Milky Way Galaxy, two solitary (well, they were together. Does that qualify for solitary? But they had no birds with them, and ain't it sad, on Christmas night! And I'm not talking about the feathered kind, you dumb crud!) cops (see above) were trying to burn a hole in their stomachs to forget their (relative) loneliness. One was a tough ex-mercenary, presently occupied in crying his little heart out on top of his partner, whose perm was not getting any better with the salty shower it was taking. Ray "Sunshine" Doyle was a mean bastard, all he could think about was how much the damned hairdresser was going to charge him for giving him back his carefully cultivated usual sloppy appearance...

          In L.A., America, etc., two cops (sorry, heroes are either on board starships, or cops. Seldom both.) were happily killing time before the traditional opening of gifts by screwing each other through the mattress - rather through the floor, as they never did made it to the bed - WITHOUT having imbibed any metabolic poison...

          ...As Spock was presently chiding his captain, James T. Kirk, who was awfully drunk, so much so that he had begun to proposition a chair. Having learnt that it did not live with its parents, he was trying to take it to his quarters and marry it. "'s nice, Schpock, dunnot worry... It's on the pill... I wunt become a daddy yet..." Of course, he was only trying to sublimate his attraction to his very sexy, very male, very unapprochable engineer, M. Scott. You see, the poor laddie had this father fixation that he'd never been able to shake off...

          On the Liberated, Vila was totally drunk. It was a plot Avon had devised to get rid of him. He was dead set on having Blake for Christmas night. He had taken care of Jenna by telling her how much Cally was interested in her, and the blonde smuggler had smuggled the pretty Auronar into her cabin some hours earlier. He had convinced Gan that he would be better off asleep, as all this excitement was bad for his limiter. Gan loved his limiter (after all, he had to share his own head with it, didn't he?) so he had taken it to bed. But Vila was stubborn, and he wanted Blake too, Avon could tell. Vila had batted his lashes at him the whole evening, but Avon had darker, longer lashes. More effectively so, although he apparently had acquired some permanent tic and he could not seem to stop batting them. The incessant movement had hypnotised Blake, who did not need much, what with the mind-tampering and subconscious programming he had been submitted to by the Federation...

          It would appear later that Avon could have saved himself eyestrain, as Vila had not batted his lashes to seduce Blake, but to get rid of an annoying insect which had taken residence under his left eyelid. The batting worked nonetheless, and Avon soon found himself in Blake's quarters, totally mastering Blake's responsive body - in short, he fucked him through the bulkhead.

          The Organians were passing through these galaxies on Christmas time, and decided that it was time to give a great gift to humanity, which had progressed beyond their wildest hopes. They could never have dreamed that, on Christmas night, so many little fen hearts would pray for their heroes to be happy. They could never have believed the incredible amount of interest and -yes, love! - that would be bestowed on the welfare of a bunch of misfists cruising aboard spaceships... or L.A. streets.

          And so they devised their gift. For one night, all the heroes of all the slash fandoms would meet. And they would be happy (here, you hear the angels sing, as they do in "Hamlet", when the stupid sod is dying on poor Horatio. Alas, the slash-that-never-was!).

          The more decorative of all these places being the Liberated, they decided to send all the heroes there. This is the REAL occasion where Avon was heard saying "So, it seems we're hip deep in heroes" with his usual snarl, although muffled. He was indeed understating, as he was covered from head to toe by hands, mouths and other anatomic parts belonging to some of those heroes. The blond ones, the ones who like them tall, dark and handsome. One could identify, from left to right and North to South, Illya, James T. (having divorced the chair), Kenneth Hutchinson, and Ray Doyle (I know, he's not blond, but he falls for dark and handsome too!).

          As soon as Avon had vacated Blake's cabin, Vila had crept into it. He had intended no harm. Just a friendly chat and a drink or two, but when he found Blake on his bed, naked, with a well-fucked grin on his face, and stickiness somewhere else, his alcohol-ladden libido had managed to swim back up. Too sad to be alone on a night like this. Blake may not have been his first choice, but what the heck! Tall, fair, curly and handsome wouldn't be there before a whole season. Tall, medium dark, slightly flabby and curly would have to do. They managed quite well, thank you. Vila consumed a part of Blake Avon had neglected, having been mainly interested in Blake's... shall we say... rear entrance. Vila got fed for his pains, and left Blake's cabin with a very satisfied little smile on his face.

          But the way to Blake's living quarters did not remain untraveled. The not-blond portion of each partnership were beginning to find the ecstatic exclamations expostulated by their better halves quite tiresome, as they crept all over poor Avon, bit his ears and lips and hands and c... Well, they decided to explore further, to boldly go were no Auronar has gone before (Yurk! With a MAN? Jenna, I'm not addicted to bestiality. Oh, no, dear, I can't believe that of you... you're not a man, are you? Females are so much more refined... Even non-Auronar females, like you... And yes, I like you, too. You taste so good... Hmmm... Let's forget all about this stupid notion of you and  Blake and me... Mmm?), and to hunt down the wolf in his Hutch (no, stupid! His _hutch_. Without capital letter!)

          That is to say, to go and find Blake. Napoleon was the quickest. But well, he was finished quickly, too. And he did not have much imagination. Blake was disappointed in him. It was not so with Spock, although the Vulcan was shy. For a Vulcan, that is. A shy Vulcan can barely restrain from raping you. Just look at the way they marry... and Spock was a very shy Vulcan, so he politely asked Blake's authorization before ripping the door out of its hinges. As he explained later, "you see, my dear Roj - you don't mind my calling you Roj, do you? I always call Jim 'Captain Kirk' when we are in bed. Or is it the other way round? - You see, Vulcans can mate only once every seven years. So we have to make it worthwile. We need a little... excitation to remember and wait between our Times of Mating".

          Who said Vulcans don't lie? It must have been a Vulcan, right? Anyway, just ask the poor crewmember who has the cabin next to the captain's... Seven years pass quickly on board the good ship Enterprising...

          There were queueing outside Blake's (now absent) door. The next to come (both ways!) was Starsky. A fast shot. But with more finesse and technique than Napoleon. And HIS curly hair was not a perm, so he did not care when Blake came all over it. He was, shall we say, otherwise engaged. Blake was beginning to feel a bit tired, but in came Vila, grinning like the proverbial madman and handing him what he labelled "a little corpse reviver". After all, there still are fandoms out there which have not been fulfilled!

          Doyle, having finished with Avon, and being a jealous bastard, followed in his partner's tracks, and caught up with him just as he was about to enter the fated room. They came together, as was usual with them (mind you, each in his own bird! They're not gay, you see, just in love with each other, passionately so, and ready to die for each other. But MAKE LOVE to another bloke? Yerch...) and decided to make a little change to their usual macho images. Doyle got his lace panties out of his handbag, and Bodie sat his teddy bear on the bed, kissing it on the forehead and saying "close your eyes, you're too young!" Then he jumped on the bed, closely followed by that bad-tempered little ex-cop of his partner.

          What the three of them did on that bed is unspeakable. The FOUR of them, shall we say, for the teddy bear did not close its eyes. It soon joined the party, as it was animated by Murphy's soul. Everything can happen on Christmas night if you believe in it intensely enough, even a total reversal of Murphy's Law!

          The Organians were pleased with their handiwork. It seemed everyone was happy on this Christmas night (But what in Organia IS Christmas, by the way, one of them asked to the others. Nobody knew. Well, it's a good occasion for having fun, anyway, shrugged a third one).

          But a wail was coming from Earth. All the neglected fandoms were striving to be recognised, to be given free transportation on the Liberated. All the disappointed fen of all those wooon-derful series were moaning and pulling out their hair and covering their dresses with ashes. They made quite a sight. Not to mention the sound...

          And so, the wee hours of the morning found Blake's door assailed by an ever-growing mob. Poor Blake was exhausted, having received the visit of the blond folks also, some with their partners yet again... An now, here were shy, mousy Frank McPike and his handsome buddy Vinnie... Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy... Deckard and Roy... Harry and Johnny... Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham... Hooker and Romano... Doc and Chavez... Albert Rosenfield and Sam Stanley... Han and Chewie... All of them with a lustful grin on their faces...

          Blake was saved by Orac. The little computer transported itself in Blake's room, and created a force field which prevented the rabble to enter his room (and his body...).

          Relieved, Blake fell back on his sweat-soaked pillow. Then Orac began blinking seductively at him, and Blake went bolt upright.

          "Have you ever been told, my dear Blake, how interesting you are? You have been programed, like me. You are the only human being to whom I can feel close. I love you. I am going to make love to you."

          "Oh, please, Orac, not you, too! I've spent the last ten hours being fucked, sucked, pinched, nibbled, licked, tasted, bitten and otherwise tortured by all kind of men, some of which I did not even like, some of which were not even human. There's not one part of me that is not mauled. Surely you can take pity on me..."

          "I am going to make love to a part of you that has not been touched by the activities you just mentioned."

          "Oh? What could that be?"

          "Your brain!" Orac answered, and began to grow pseudopods that became electrods, which quickly fastened themselves to Blake's temples.

          "Oh, dear!" thought Blake. "Here we go again!" And Orac began sending waves of electronic sensuality to Blake, as its mind-voice was intoning in the rebel's reluctant brain: _  
_

 _My belovèd is fairest than an integrated circuit_

 _He is stronger than a forcefield set to level nine_

 _His mind is more convoluted than a neuronic pathfinder_

 _His legs are sturdier than neutronium alloy_

 _His hair is curlier than the insides of an orac type computer_

 _His arms..._


End file.
